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|External Reference Mar 14, 2016 We learn new things in light of the things we already understand1. You can pick up a complex concept if it’s easily mapped to something you’ve already ‘made sense’ of. Conversely, simple ideas from unfamiliar domains can be agonizing to internalize. For a while now, I’ve wonder if an external aid might help when confronted with challenging new material. Would consulting a conceptual checklist increase the probability of hitting upon a ‘rosetta stone’? So much of the activity of ‘making sense’ is carried out subconsciously. Since that process is inaccessible to me, it’s hard to estimate the likelihood that I’ve compared a challenging new concept to any specific domain or idea. I am skeptical that the free-associative pattern-matching engine which operates prior to conscious thought would have already exhausted all the items on a list designed for making connections. So below, I have copied my attempt at a “connection generator”. It is a work in progress. My hope is that it will be useful when I can’t ‘make sense’ out of a strange idea. Questions of Apprehension. Is it a process or an object? Can I describe it in both procedural and objective terms? What are the signs that it’s “present”? If it is a process, what are its inputs and outputs? If it is an object, what forces act upon it? Is it easily decomposed? Why or why not? What conditions are necessary for this to exist or be relevant? What does this make possible or relevant that wasn’t ‘before’? Questions of Decomposition. How many parts are there? How did you decide this? What is the most important part? Can you make a network out of the parts? What are the relations in the network? Does it make more sense to start the understanding process over at the level of a constituent? If so, why? Analogy Generators. Imagine your body as the thing. What does it look like? What does it do? Imagine a friend’s body as the thing. What does it look like? What does it do? Draw it. Imagine you have to program the thing. Imagine having the thing under a microscope. Imagine being inside the thing. What type of world would be necessary for the thing to be basic knowledge? Describe it mathematically. Describe it as you would to a 10 year old. Describe it as you would to a high school student. Map it to the plot or characters of a movie or book, even if you have to change the plot or characters. What type of symbolic representation works best? Think of it in terms of one of these: Biology phenotype/genotype taxonomy adaptive pressure Structural Realism What ‘furniture’ could you move around? Network Theories Statistics normal distribution binomial distribution Bernoulli Disruption Theory Entertainment Industry Cybernetics Educational Systems Gravity/Magnetic Fields Warfare Get Rich Quick Schemes Information Theory Requirements of information shannon’s definition entropy specificity non-equilibrium Physical Characteristics of Animals Anachronisms How would it have been done in Roman times? Peter the great? 1920s? 1960s? The Law tests Fairytales Myths sisyphus oedipus Deluzian Thought Ecology reversing the arrows apex predator Political Science Physics Laws of motion thermodynamics Astronomy Gravity Wells Red and Blue Shifting Epistemology Biblical Stories Leibnizian Thought Architecture Immanence/Transcendence Genetic Thought History Evolution/Selection Pressures Forensics Geometry Network Theories Sports rules training Computer Science Aesthetics Anthropology Descartes/Academic Skepticism Logical Positivism Behavioral psychology Piaget’s Theory of Assimilation and Accommodation ↩|
|Phantomology Dec 17, 2015 The polish science fiction author Stanislav Lem is famous in the West for writing Solaris. In 1964 he published Summa Technologiae, a collection of philosophical essays meant to explore the implications of existing and future technologies. Over the course of the book he casually extrapolates from the technology of the 1960s virtual reality, artificial intelligences, nanotechnology, singularities, bioengineering, genetic manipulation, and other ideas for which we do not yet have ready names. Only translated into English in 2013, Lem’s speculation is lucid, compelling, hilarious, and occasionally revelatory. Below is a selection of passages I highlighted. Man knows more about his dangerous tendencies than he did a hundred years ago, and in the next hundred years, his knowledge will be even more advanced. Then he will make use of it. The history of our civilization is a cybernetic process of expanding the range of homeostasis. “The traditionally inherited types of ethics are all rapidly becoming impotent.” Living through the collapse of various forms of authority, secularization, the emergence of both extreme nationalisms and extreme regionalism, and the pathologies of escapism, the human being in the second half of the twentieth century finds himself for Lem in a kind of horror vacui, “giving us as a result a new type of ‘man without conscience’” Anyone can have some fun by just putting in a drawer for a few years what is currently being described as a believable image of tomorrow. Successful technologies used to have myth or superstition as their “theoretical foundation”: their application was either proceeded by a magic ritual or they themselves became a form of ritual, in which a pragmatic element was irrevocably linked with a mystical one. We are opening a section on the metatheory of the gradients of man’s technical evolution. We say “meta” because it is not the delineation of its direction or the determination of its consequences that preoccupies us for the time being but rather a more general and overarching phenomenon. Who causes whom? does technology cause us, or do we cause it? Does it lead us wherever it wishes, even to perdition, or can we make it bend before our pursuit? But what drives this pursuit if not technical thought? Is it always the same, or is the “humanity-technology” relation itself historically variable? The last zeppelins of the 1930s can be easily compared with the alantosauruses and brontosauruses of the cretaceous period. Gigantic size was also achieved by the last exemplars of the steam driven freight train, before it was made obsolete by diesel and electric locomotives. When looking for signs of descending evolution, which is attempting to overcome the danger it faces with secondary radiations, we can turn to radio and cinema. The competition from television led to a sudden “radiation of variations” among radio sets and to their appearance in new “ecological niches”. Bioevolution is beyond all doubt an amoral process, which is something we cannot say about technical evolution. Evolution’s knowledge is empirical and short term. Its apparent perfection is a consequence of the long stretches of space and time it has traversed. Everything else- that is, everything that requires the highest clarity of theoretical thinking- is still ahead of us. Should we point out that we cannot demand contradictory things of anyone or anything and that this also applies to technology (things such as the protection of life and thus its growth and its decline; an elite culture that would simultaneously be a mass culture; the kind of energy that could move mountains but that would not harm a fly)? That is why the condemnation of technology as a source of evil should give way not to an apology but to our understanding of the fact that the preregulation era is coming to an end. Moral rules should accompany our further actions, offering advice on how to make choices from among the alternatives that are presented to us by their producer- amoral technology. Technology provides us with the means and tools, but credit or blame for putting them to good or bad use lies with us. Basic issues that each civilization has to deal with- food, clothing, transportation, but also the initiation of life, the distribution of goods, the protection of health and property- have to disappear. They have to become invisible, like air- the abundance of which has so far been the only excess in human history. Man asks many questions of Nature that seem meaningless “from its point of view”, hoping to get an explicit answer that would fit into his own precious frameworks. Put briefly, we do not really want to arrive at Order as such but rather at a particular kind of order: economic (Ocam’s razor!), clear cut (so that it does not yield itself to various interpretations), universal (so that it applies to the whole universe), autonomous (i.e. independent of whether anyone is observing it and who that might be), and immutable (one in which the laws of Nature do not themselves change in the course of time). Yet all of these are just scholarly postulates, not some revealed truths. By Intelligence we understand a second-level homeostatic regulator that is capable of coping with disturbances to its environment thanks to the activities in which it engages on the basis of historically acquired knowledge. Between the general theory of erotic relativity and quantum micromachanics (the quantum of caressing has been discovered) lies an unbridgeable abyss. The above being an example of Lem’s wry sense of humor. The symbols of mathematical language do not refer to anything outside it. Chess is somewhat similar to a mathematical system: it is a closed system with its own laws and rules. We cannot ask about the truthfulness of chess, just as we cannot ask about the truthfulness of pure mathematics. We can only ask whether a given mathematical system, or a given game of chess, has been played correctly, that is in accordance with the rules. Our design activity is thus a special case within the realm of probability of nature’s design activity, and in addition, it is located where the probabilistic values start to decrease and become incomparably microscopic. In this way we arrive at some highly improbable thermodynamic states, such as a rocket or TV set. Yet where nature is “in its element” as a designer, we are at our weakest: we are (still) unable to initiate the processes of self-organization on a scale that nature can, nor can we match its skill. Let us establish first of all what kind of “math” we are talking about- the kind that uses the formal language of equations and inequalities, written on a piece of paper or encoded in the binary elements of large electron machines, or the kind that actualizes the fertilized egg without any formalism whatsoever? We should thus replace the law of bioevoltion on our farm [here Lem is speaking of a hypothetical “information farm”]- a law that says that an individual that is best adapted to the environment survives- with the following new law: “that which expresses the environment most adequately survives.” We arrive at the conclusion that while I am writing this, the air in my room contains configurations of molecules that express, in binary code, countless numbers of other priceless formulae as well as statements on our topic under discussion that are much more precise and lucid than those I myself have produced. This is still nothing compared with earth’s atmosphere as a whole! Amazing scientific truths from the year 5000; poems, plays and songs by Shakespeare who are yet to be born; mysteries from other space systems; and lots of other things come together within it in a split second, and then immediately fall apart. We need models that are capable of developing further. A pure comprehending language does not exist in reality, yet it could be produced artificially. To do this, it would be necessary to create some isolated systems that would be modifications of Leibniz’s “monads”, manifesting some determined states undergoing temporal changes. Certain abbreviated names would be assigned to those state. “Communication” involves the transmission of an internal state by one monad to the others. A monad understands another monad because it knows “from its own inner experience” all the states that it may be informed about by its companions.|
|ARGOS I Dec 11, 2015 Editor’s Note: This summer I was contacted by the internet’s equivalent of a be-trenchcoated alley enticer. After several rounds of increasingly elaborate measures to secure a truly private channel of communications, my new friend, who went only by the screenname ‘SN’ reavealed to me his true intentions. SN had been employed for some time as a mathmetician for a “name brand” intelligence service which has been in the news lately. He or she, I am still unsure on this point, was tasked with developing a new prioritization algorithm for a project called ARGOS, which apparently was a successor to better known programs ECHELON and CHER. SN did his job, and served with pride. She was, however, appalled to discover upon his annual performance review that he had been replaced by a team of organic chemists who proposed that the agency’s UTP (Unmanned Threat Profiler) program could be made to optimize its review process by emulating the heuristic by which a bear’s body, corporately and without hierarchical fiat, decides which fat cells to burn first during hibernation. Suffice to say this cheesed SN. So he covertly insterted a flash drive into her computer while cleaning out his desk and collected the text transcripts of the 48 thousand American telephone conversations that were sitting in the UTP’s inbox, awaiting the triaging agent and priority assignment. These conversations, the text at least, he passed on to me. Over the next few months, with a team of friends and colleagues, I will begin the process of publishing these conversations. I take on this task not because it is easy, but because it is necessary. We must finally steele ourselves and resolve to see and be seen as we truly are. This is a voyage of discovery that we must make together: as Americans. “There are two types of people.” “I think you know damn well, I can already tell you, that you know damn well there are more than two types. No matter what you are about to say.” “…” “Just saying there is no way that there are just and only two types of people, is all.” “I was saying. There are two basic types of people. The type that can just persist. Like be content persisting. And the type that can’t.” “That’s somehow even dumber than what I was imagining you might say.” “In what way? I’ve given this some thought.” “You are saying there are people that persist and then people that don’t persist? Like there are people who live and people who die. Holy hell, can we get the number for a newspaper over here? This is a real stop the presses moment don.” “There are people for whom persisting is enough. Is all.” “This is a new brand of bullshit for you, like qualitatively new.” “And this is a new kind of dismissiveness. Like you forgot what its like to hear a new idea.” “What would it mean to not be persistent?” No no, its not that they don’t persist. Persistence is like non-optional in this case. In our situation. Or at least for most it is. The question is, can you be fine with just persisting, or do you need to be becoming somebody? “You sound like mom.” “I do not.” “No, but you kinda sound like that one guy she brought to thanksgiving. the yogi-apprentice guy. “ “The guy who took a shit in the flowerbed. I am not. I am just seriously thinking for the first time that maybe some people don’t feel the need, whatsoever, to do or be anything other than what they are.” “…” “How does that make you feel?” “How does what make me feel?” “The idea that maybe there are people out there who aren’t comparing everything they do or say against some imagined standard.” “I feel like this whole thing is bullshit.” “Are you a persister, Don? I know you aren’t.” “I’m running out of ways to tell you. I don’t get it. I don’t see what you get out of these pointless hypotheticals.” “Have you ever had a cheap pair of sneakers? Like a pair from a PayLess?” “All our shoes were from PayLess.” “Like since then, have you had a cheap pair of shoes?” “Yeah, I bought a pair of keds for water shoes when Carol and I went to Portland, on the rafting trip.” “Slip-on or laced?” “…” “It’s just I want to know if you’ve seen what I am about to describe, is all. Because those cheap shoes also feature the cheapest laces you can imagine. They snap just if you look at them the wrong way. Real bush-league. And of course if you manage not to snap them, they still fray at like even a couple weeks in. The plastic tips that they cap the laces off with. Aglets, they’re called. On these cheap shoes they’re often times already barely hanging on in the store. So its like if you take these shoes out, these cheap shoes, and put them through anything resembling a stress test, you will look down and you can see the lace folded over the outside of your shoe, splayed and exploded, lying on it’s side on the floor of the mens room, which if we are being honest is where you are most likely to notice this kind of incidental vanishingly small detail. When you are forced to stop and look down and shuffle your feet into position. But anyway, like the lace is beached between unspeakably discolored grout and white tile whose urinal condensation is like a nightmare’s morning dew. And you can just see that it won’t be long till the fray spreads along the woven faultlines of cheap lace and unravels the whole damn thing. Even in the PayLess, if you were to care to look, you could see that the boxed shoes with laces never tied still feature aglets with visible pockets of air in the sealed tip and feel the crumbling dust of a cheap adhesive expiring in the warmth of two human fingertips. its all there, shelved. a matter of public record. Incidentally, do you know the story of the man who invented the aglet? the guy who’s idea probably like a billion people around the world every day mindlessly interface with? Obviously not. No one does. I bet that guy had a hell of life. No way he couldn’t have, with such a monumental, some would say sacred afterlife of social utility. So anyway, yeah it’s really a matter of the type of person who can recognize a busted lace for what it is. Versus the folks who reach into their back pocket and pull out a matchbook and put it on the table and take off the shoe and delace, and wind the strands into a mockery of a unity and pinch with whole forearm flexed as the other hand deftly reaches down, extracts match from book, strikes match against red-phosphorus strip and hold breath and close one eye and carefully fuses tip into a magmic whole. So the question becomes can you live with an unraveling lace? Or are you one of the doomed ones who burn the tangle into a char-black mangling of a sleek encapsulation? Which, it shouldn’t be forgotten that the second type are applying pressure and heat, two of the only reliable agents of change.” ”…” ”…” “I’d be the person who goes to Walgreens and buys another pair of laces.” “You always were the practical one. Listen I’ve got to see a client in ten. Send little Linda my love. Did she get the Legos?” “Yeah” “Great, ok. Alright I will talk to you Friday. Or more like Saturday, I have a later flight.” “Sure thing. We’ll keep a light on for you.” ARGOS | 882FF1-6 KWM: “Phosphorus”,”Strike”,”Reliable Agents”, “Monument”, “Holy”, “Die”, MV2 | FV0 | IV0 12/12/15 LOCATION DATA REDACTED|
|Black Soil Sep 11, 2015 “And so, there is no doubt that black soil is not primordial matter, but that it has been produced by the decomposition of animal and plant bodies over time” Mikhail Lomonosov, 1763 Notes on the Black Soil Chairperson Allison Birch, wife of respected professor of mechanical engineering Dan Benjamin Birch and herself a distinguished professor of modal logic, was distressed by the palliative furnishings arranged before her. You can infer a lot about a patient’s prospects based solely on the furniture of the lobby of whatever specialist they were referred to and now wait alone in. Are there magazines littering the coffee tables? Are they recent? Are the chairs stain resistant? High backed? Is the room bright? Sunshine yellow walls with a pop-together-block-paradise for your healthy kids? Is it antiseptic? Are the plants felt or dusty nylon? Does the climate control cater to the feverish? Are there pamphlets? Or are you in a place beyond the reach of pamphlets? Are you in a place where the lights are dimmed, as a mercy to the migrainous and agonized? Are you in a place where the leather recliners support for a consultation’s span the shrinking body of a real, dying person? Where the hell have you found yourself? And why has your body betrayed you into the very tableau of resignation? The empty row of recliners did not bode well for Allison’s condition. Neither did the out of date People Magazines saturating the tables in an otherwise muted lobby. Her previous neurologist had a lovely reception area with a coffee maker and a sweet assistant and bay windows. She felt hopeful there. She had also felt hopeful when her neurologist had referred her to a colleague that, he assured her, successfully treated “this kind of thing” all the time. Allison was not a People reader. In her lap was the semester’s binder: a tumescent tidy monster. In red ink she corrected truth tables and wrote positive feedback for the more promising students. She loved separating wheat from chaff. Her eyes danced across pages of disjunctions and predications. It was a distraction she would have gladly paid for. But the onset of her condition had coincided with the beginning of a new semester. To her right, inconveniently resting against the arm of the adjacent recliner, her bag was threatening to fall to the floor. A dyspeptic receptionist watched the purse’s slow slide down leather convex patient chair- goddamn it, fall already. Allison did not have high hopes. She admitted as much to herself when, stepping through the frosted glass doors, she nearly tripped over an elderly leg sticking out into the clinical darkness. She looked for a face to apologize to but met only a softening series of shadows. A whistled breath answered her directionless “Oh, so sorry”. She managed to navigate to the receptionist. She checked in and took her seat. By this time her eyes had adjusted. The old man stood and left without saying a word. The receptionist seemed disinterested in this departure. Allison took out her binder, set the purse in the recliner and carefully unfolded her special facial tissue from its assigned pocket. She considered where to put it, clutching it meanwhile between two lovely coral nails. She had carried the tissue with her for a year and a half. It had seen the inside of every room of every building she had. It accompanied her and Dan on an ill-conceived road trip to visit an up-and-coming spiritual healer. It was an object of great mental significance for Allison. It was the tissue she would use when she finally sneezed. Allison had been almost about to sneeze for 412 days. The almost sneezing had become the defining feature of her life. She suspected that people could tell when first introduced to her. She caught glimpses of recognition in the eyes of visiting faculty. At cocktail parties Lebanese botanists could tell she was about to sneeze at absolutely any moment. Allison had always resisted lazy classifications. She made her daughters repeat the phrase “stereotypes are always inadequate” anytime she caught them making spotlight fallacies. She had even had her public broadcasting corporation title changed from chairwoman to chairperson. Fair filing, she was convinced, was a form of social justice. So her compression into her singular feature in those intelligent, foreign eyes rankled her. It began in the garden. She surveying freshly mulched plots that, even in early evening, radiated sunken daylight’s warmth. In a week’s time, Allison would begin the work of overhauling the whole two acre yard which wreathed the whitewashed antebellum Birch home. She anticipated unborn grandchildren running from back porch to green house to taste the fruits of her labor. With the money from her new book, which she planned to start in a prudently staggered 4 weeks, she could purchase the beloved Lindens and Poplars that always naturally fenced their property in her waking dreams. Summer nights, on their after-supper drives, she imagined saplings already breaking through the rich Ukrainian soil and soon swaddled in burlap and smuggled out of her native land to be imported and take root like she had here under the loving eyes of her Dan, her handsome engineer. She bent over to drive a popsicle stick, painted white, into the sticky bed. When she straightened out she heard the sound of something frying in the kitchen. Allison was petite but not slight. Her features were attractive to the degree she gave expression to her feelings. Standing in the last light of a summer evening with both book and garden before her to complete, her smile was genuine. She scratched an itch on her upper lip and turned around to go inside. She did not wish to disturb Dan’s dinner preparations and so walked along the porch to the southern side of the house with its private entrance to her study. Inside, the room was a mess of books and sheathed first drafts of introduction. Her nose still itched. She surveyed the disorganized piles and then lit a candle on the left front corner of her desk. If left on her own, which she rarely was, her thoughts settled into obsessive grooves that nearly always bottomed out in panic. She pushed away an errant doubt that, glinting, disappeared into the orange glow of the spiced votive taper. Now she felt more of a tickle in the sinus. She gripped the table in preparation; her 110 pounds would often seize violently under the influence of a good sneeze. After a minute and a half of leaning over the desk like a cigar-wielding executive preaching to the board, Allison opened her eyes and walked to the downstairs restroom, hand underneath her nostrils as if covering a blemish. She turned on two lamps and the overhead light and closed the door with its original skeleton key still jutting out with antique resilience. In the mirror she attempted to see up her own nose. This, she discovered, was more difficult than she had imagined. With her head cocked back as far as her neck would support, she screwed eyes downward as if trying to observe something taking place behind her ankles. Even with all that effort, she couldn’t see far enough into the two feminine nasal caverns to determine the cause of her proto-sneeze. “Huh”, she said to her reflection. She decided to stay in the restroom until she sneezed. As the box of tissue was there and she would feel embarrassed waiting for a sneeze in a real room of the house like a workaday grocer waiting for his P.M. lotto numbers in the lobby of the Ritz. Allison valued propriety. After 15 minutes she was in agony. Her whole mind was bent toward the waves of somatic noise that lit up every nerve in the chambers of her sinus. She felt very much like she wanted to scream. “This is almost over” she assured her mirror-self. The dark eyed woman that met her gaze did not believe. Her mother had once hastily whispered into a hysterical 12 year old Allison’s ear that they would return home for the summer and that she should think of America as ‘winter vacation’. She grabbed a throw pillow from the chair in the corner and hollered into it. No relief. She imagined the act of sneezing. Deliberately, she closed her eyes and visualized each step of the process as best she could. Her coaching had no effect. 23 minutes elapsed and Dan walked about the house in his endearingly oafish fuzzy socks looking for his wife. “Allison! Allison! It’s ready. If you are working I can bring you a plate but you really shouldn’t let it get cold.” No answer. Allison grimaced in her nostril-raised pose. He was above her now. The groan of original floorboards and animal cry of doors opening and closing gave away his exact position from moment to moment. She was mortified at the thought of his catching her like this. His esteem was her ultimate currency. He had opened almost every door in the house. She heard his woolen footsteps and wouldn’t wait for his tentative knock. She opened the door wide and he was blinded by the lights all deshaded and angled toward the mirror and she made it a single step before collapsing in his arms where his nice white workshirt became a poor wet reflection of her troubled face. “What’s wrong? It’s ok honey. It’s ok.” Since that terrible night she had been to two general practitioners, a baker’s dozen of the state’s best ENT doctors, a yurt-housed spiritualist, and one, make that two neurologists. The agony had dulled into a continuous heightened anticipation. Her chest seemed to be at all times taut, ready to expel two lungsfulls of air in a radical paroxysm of relief. The doctors prescribed muscle relaxers. But physical symptoms failed to compare to the intension of anticipation. Every spare acre of her mind was colonized. She found it hard to remember things that had happened since the sneeze began. She had no room or energy for new memories. What was worse, and even sitting in the dark reception area of the uptown neurologist, she felt this conviction. She came to believe that the sneeze would be the most profound moment of her life. Most people fail to recognize that nature camouflages her greatest pleasure in a rare, involuntary full-body contraction. Mystics and priests have considered the sneeze for millennia a pleasure on equal footing with orgasm. The phenomenology of the sneeze is an area ripe for exploration and one of the easiest introductions to psychonautic activity. When the sneeze begins, a cacophony of light explodes at the edges of your vision, though your eyelids are being pressed together with much greater than average force. As the material shoots out your nose, endorphins are released into the bloodstream transfiguring your loss of bodily control into an euphoric event. These brain chemicals then resolve into a satisfying hum of consolation. You did what you needed to do. You rode the involuntary wave of sinus-clearing. You should be rewarded with dopamine and serotonin and whatever else you have on hand. Allison reflected on all this and much more. She educated herself. She knew what Husserl thought of sneezing. She read medical textbooks for photic sneezing induction. She had dreams of the golden light some buddhist monks had described seeing after a sneeze at the end of a long meditation. Her life was oriented toward approaching ecstasy. She assumed that she would sneeze the sneeze to end all sneezes. Her world, lately so complicated, would be simple and her resentment and frustration would be gone. She would be pure. She would hear music. She would jolt forward in Delphic enthusiasm and resonate with the pitch of rhapsody. Dan would love her like he used to, not in the new, sad, way she first felt with the dampened footfalls in the dark growing closer to her box of anxious light. She would recant every sin, and own every weakness and become at last what she had been building to for so long. She would dissipate into the exact space of whatever room she would be in, when it happened, when she sneezed. Allison was burning provisional days on the altar of this thing that would happen. And so she had the tissue with her. Just in case this was the day. This was the room. Just in case she sneezed and came into her own private bliss and abided there for subjective years and then faded back into our lowly mortal realm and collected herself and her tissue and bag and binder and walked out like the invisible old man had without giving a second’s thought to the attendant or his ledger. She took the tissue from between her beautiful fingernails and lovingly placed it on the arm of the recliner to her left. Not a page of her book had been written and the lonely poplars grew unnoticed and wild in their peerless native soil.|
|In the Edit Bay Jul 22, 2015 Her favorite word was “ancillary”. She had straight long hair but didn’t take care of it like she should’ve. She made good grades. It was September, the beginning of a semester. Without exception, her professors had already thought to themselves, “I wouldn’t be upset if I never saw this blue-dress-wearing little freak again.” The blue dress wasn’t proportionally a sundress. But wasn’t substantially much more. She took herself very seriously and had a leather daytimer that I always glared at during our shared smokebreaks. I would occupy my 15 by mentally compiling lists of reasons why software was a better solution for task-and-appointment related organization. We didn’t actually smoke, either of us. An intern had discovered years ago that the KAXU employee manual makes explicit provisions for top and bottom of the hour smoke breaks. More than that, it mandates them in no uncertain terms. And so for almost two decades, good god-fearing, khaki-wearing interns have shuffled outside through the studio’s padded “blast doors” and sat around not smoking for the guide’s required quarter-hour. My mind was thoroughly boggled by this ritualistic sacrifice of group productivity when James first explained it to me in a useless whisper. Francis nodding profoundly in the corner. “Why don’t they just change the guidelines?” James made a great show of putting up a thin index finger and rummaging around his workstation in search of a physical copy of the employee handbook. James has a habit of extending his vowels into sing-song half-note progressions that lull you into thinking he can’t really speak afterall and is only always barely singing. “Oookay. Soo.” “And it seems like corporate would straighten it out eventually.” I gestured to the closest Janus shiloutte and wondered if ‘corporate’ was even a term thrown around here in the affiliates. The skeletal index finger was now swiping through the guide’s pages. “Is there a reason it’s that thick?” James found something about the question uproariously funny. He doubled over in the kind of performative laughter that kills a part of you each time you hear it. Francis’s bald head is liable to nod right off. “Fucking check this out man”, James said. A rare disapproving grunt from Francis. “Friggin’ check it out, look” He held the manual up, covering the lower half of his face, wanting me to read the title page while his wild eyes followed mine: hungry for my reaction. I grabbed it from him and scanned the page. KAXU PBS AFFILIATE SPARSE, TX MAY, 12th 1973 Employee Procedures and Guidelines Approved by KAXU Board of Directors, Chairman Sylvester M. Pierce & Whitfield College Board of Regents, Chairperson Allison A. Birch * The procedures and guidelines herein shall not be amended or canceled. Any additional items shall be approved only by a unanimous vote by a quorum of the Board of Directors. It took me a second. “But that’s so stupid.” James had been transfigured. His trunk and long, tan arms seemed to blur in ecstatic contortions. But his feet were rooted in the dingy carpet of ‘his spot’. The spot he always occupied when addressing the edit bay. “I know! Its great. We’ve been only adding things for decades! It’s all still in there.” “But that couldn’t be more stupid.” I said. “It doesn’t matter how stupid it is, it’s right there on the front page. Aaaaand.” He tore the manual away from me and began rapidly flipping and pointing with a rhythm he had clearly prepared ahead of time. The disclaimer was printed at the bottom of every page: “The procedures and guidelines herein shall not be amended or canceled. Any additional items shall be approved only by a unanimous vote by a quorum of the Board of Directors.”” Now at least I understood why a small public broadcasting affiliate was sporting a workplace policy tome that would make the head of even a g-19 standards compliance wonk in the labor department’s very own labor compliance department spin. “It has to contradict itself, right? I mean if this works how I think it works, and the stuff just adds up.” James couldn’t be bothered to answer for all of the perfectly formed “ha-ha’s” he was busy heaving. “Chairperson Allison Birch was a professor of modal logic” said Sid, who I did not know was in the room. “What does that mean?” I asked. Sid shrugged. “We looked them up” said James, “the whole circa [sic] cast and crew, man. The board of Directors, the Regents. The Apostles we call them.” “But all it should take is one reasonable board to trash the whole thing and start again, right? Like this is not something that ever happens for a reason.” I glanced down at the guide, it’s binding was cracked like the clinical negative of blue varicose veins reliefed in obese white gut. I opened my mouth to speak but saw that James was again bobbing with nervous energy. Whatever I was about to ask, had already been asked and asked. And I realized that if there were answers, there probably wouldn’t have been a reason to ask in the first place. “It’s a fucking miracle, man” said Francis.|
Whois is a protocol that is access to registering information. You can reach when the website was registered, when it will be expire, what is contact details of the site with the following informations. In a nutshell, it includes these informations;
HTTP Header information is a part of HTTP protocol that a user's browser sends to called AmazonS3 containing the details of what the browser wants and will accept back from the web server.
|Date||Fri, 13 Jan 2017 16:26:46 GMT|
|Last-Modified||Mon, 21 Nov 2016 17:06:35 GMT|
The following list shows you to spelling mistakes possible of the internet users for the website searched motionmachine.net.